by Jen Blood
Her chair scraped across the linoleum when she stood. Apart from our breathing, it was the only sound in the house.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“I’m going to bed before I punch you.”
I got up and caught her arm before she could go anywhere. “If that’s what it’ll take for you to feel better, go for it. I deserve it.”
She stood there for a few seconds, breathing hard, studying me. My cheek was bruised and my lip split, my bruised ribs bandaged. Breathing hurt. I expected her to let me off easy for any one of those reasons. I should have known better.
She pulled back and kicked me squarely in the shin. Her sneakers didn’t hurt as much as boots would have, but she still put some oomph into it. I stumbled backward into the counter.
“Ow. Shit.”
“Now I’m going to bed.”
I grumbled a response even I couldn’t understand, and let her go.
The bedroom she left me with had beige walls and African prints and a hardwood floor with scatter rugs in bold block patterns. I hadn’t seen Solomon sneak in, but she’d left a clean pair of my boxers and a t-shirt folded neatly on the double bed. It was two a.m. by the time I got washed up—the doctor had warned against me showering with my ribs taped—and two-thirty by the time I emerged from the bathroom and padded back to the bedroom in bare feet and the underwear Solomon had brought. I hadn’t bothered with the shirt.
When I returned to the room, Solomon was lying on top of the covers at the very edge of the bed, wearing only her t-shirt. Her eyes were closed. The window was open, but it was still too warm in the room, a light breeze barely moving the curtains. I got on top of the covers on my side of the bed.
“I’m only here so you can’t decide to ditch me in the middle of the night again,” she said without moving.
“Fair enough.”
I closed my eyes. Seconds passed. I felt more than heard her shift position. A moment later, her hand brushed against mine. I closed my fingers around hers.
“I’m glad you’re all right,” she whispered.
“Thanks for saving my ass.”
“Yeah, well... I don’t know about the rest of you, but that ass is worth saving.”
My father would have approved of the sleeping arrangements that night: hands joined, but with more than enough room for the Good Book between us.
◊◊◊◊◊
“So, what’s the plan?” Solomon asked over breakfast the next morning. It was barely eight a.m., and we were both already chafing to get out of there.
“If Thibodeau has anything to say about it, I think the plan is sitting here and stewing in our own juices until we rot.”
“Screw that.”
My sentiments exactly, despite how broken I might have looked to the casual observer. We were in the living room, the TV tuned to the news. A statement had already been made about Jacob Deng’s death, and every network was carrying the story. There was nothing about Wolf or me, but there was an All-Points Bulletin out for Elias, using his driver’s license photo. There was no mention of Johnny, and no one had said a word about Lisette and my abduction. Maisie, on the other hand, was everywhere.
“Twelve-year-old Maisie Dsengani, daughter of the recently murdered Charlene Dsengani, is also missing,” a serious-looking reporter with silver-tinged hair announced. A picture of Maisie flashed on the screen—a recent one that showed Maisie grinning widely, her eyes bright with laughter. “If you have any information relating to the whereabouts of this girl, you are asked to contact the Portland Police Department at the number below immediately.”
“No mention of Foster,” Solomon noted sourly.
“What would anyone say?”
She shrugged. “They might not connect him to the actual killing, but don’t you think they’ll start running the story about Foster knowing Charlene and Jacob soon? I mean, the pictures prove that much.”
“A picture only you, me, Davies, and Jacob Deng have.”
“I hate it when you’re logical.”
“I know. I’m not crazy about it myself right now.”
She groaned and stretched her legs to the end of the sofa, pressing into my thigh. “If we have to sit here all day while every second-rate reporter out there gets our story, I’ll go nuts by dinner. I don’t even know why we’re here. Elias is dead. Johnny’s...” She paused and looked at me speculatively. She’d warmed up since the night before, but I knew she was still hardly my biggest fan. “Do you think Wolf killed Johnny?”
There was a split-second’s hesitation, but no more before I shook my head. “He might’ve hurt him a little. Put the fear of God in him. But...no. I don’t think he killed him.”
“Good. Me neither. Either way, though, I don’t see him showing his head around here again.”
“Agreed. But Foster’s still out there. If he really was the one to put the hit out on us, that’s still in effect.”
“We have the cops watching us. And if Foster makes a move at this point... I mean, even he can’t be that arrogant, right?”
I didn’t answer. I’d been thinking along much the same lines for the last hour or so. We had two days to pull the paper together, and a career-making story unfolding without us. “Maybe we could just check in with Buzz,” I suggested. “I want to find out how he’s doing anyway. Maybe Alice will have some guidance.”
“I want to talk to Madame Rose again,” Solomon said. She stood, as though a decision had been made. “And we should get in touch with Wolf and Lisette, too. See what’s happening with them.”
“Thibodeau told us to stay put.”
“So?” She raised her eyebrows at me and put her hands on her hips. She was wearing shorts and a tank top, her hair in a ponytail. We’d gotten a few hours of sleep the night before, but she still looked tired. And as far as I knew, we were both just as mortal as we’d been twenty-four hours ago.
“Okay,” I said. “So...come up with a plan. You have to be the one to break it to Thibodeau that we’re leaving the flophouse early, though.”
It turned out that everyone was way too busy to worry too much about where Solomon and I were keeping our asses that morning. I flagged down one of the uniforms who was patrolling the neighborhood, and he got in touch with the precinct for us. After a tense, very brief conversation with Detective Thibodeau, Solomon and I were officially cleared to head back out into the world—though definitely not with the detective’s blessing.
We got back to our apartment with barely enough time to change before the first stop of the day: the University of Southern Maine.
At ten o’clock that morning, Rick Foster held a press conference in a crowded auditorium housed in an old brick building that could have been the face of New England colleges from Maine to Rhode Island and all points in between. The space allowed for plenty of camera crews, which I assumed had been the point. By all accounts, Foster’s turnout on Monday had been disappointing; today, the place was packed.
Solomon and I slipped through the double doors just before security closed them, and managed to find a couple of seats toward the front. Foster was center stage, the Portland chief of police to his right, Bobby Davies to his left. Detective Thibodeau and a couple of other cops I didn’t recognize stood at attention behind them. Foster wore jeans and a striped button-up with the sleeves rolled up, his hair carefully mussed. It looked like someone had taken time to make sure he didn’t look too good, but the effort had the opposite effect: He looked like a Hollywood icon trying to play the part of one of the common folk.
“Last night,” Foster began, “a twenty-nine-year-old Sudanese refugee named Jacob Deng was found dead outside his home in Newry, Maine.”
I glanced at Thibodeau. The detective’s jaw was set, his face unreadable. I wondered how hard Foster had pushed for this conference...and just how pissed Thibodeau was at the chief having given in.
Foster started off by talking about Charlene Dsengani’s death, and the fact that the methods of killing were the same
for her and Jacob. Then, he segued into Maisie’s disappearance. From there, his motive for calling the press conference in the first place became crystal clear.
Foster took a drink of water and rolled his sleeves up a little farther. With someone else it might have seemed like an anxious move, but the congressman looked earnest and at ease.
“In 1987...” he began. I tensed. Suddenly, I knew exactly what he was about to pull. “I met Charlene and her sister, Mary Dsengani. They were young, frightened teenage girls being held by a madman named Sefu Keita. Councilman Davies and I went on what we called a diplomatic cultural immersion—an opportunity for us to meet with Sefu Keita on his own terms.”
“Shit,” Solomon whispered. “He’s outing himself. There goes our whole story.”
“Ssh,” I said, my attention fixed on Foster. Davies looked washed out beside him—just this side of washed up.
“When we saw the way these girls were treated, Councilman Davies and I vowed that, whatever it took, we would get them out of there. It was seven long years of struggles on both sides and unimaginable suffering on the part of the Dsengani sisters before we finally succeeded.
“Two years later, Jacob Deng—who was pivotal in helping Mary, Charlene, and Charlene’s young daughter, Maisie, escape—was granted asylum here in Maine.”
“Talk about a spin master,” Solomon muttered.
“Talk about a load of shit,” I muttered back.
“This horrifying act is unimaginable,” Foster continued. “And the fact that Maisie Dsengani is now missing only adds to the injustice of this story. Which is I why I am announcing here and now...” He took a dramatic pause. Just then, one of his aides began distributing a press pack around the room. I found myself holding my breath along with the rest of the room. “Whatever money raised this evening in what was meant to be a fundraiser for my own campaign, will be donated directly to a reward for anyone who can provide information leading to the safe return of Maisie Dsengani.”
Reporters went nuts. Foster held up his hand, still serious. “And further, I will personally match and then double whatever we’re able to raise tonight. This is no longer about politics, or black and white. This is about bringing a child home safely.”
The bastard had completely undermined everything we’d planned to do. I had to admit, strategically it was a hell of a ballsy move. Solomon flipped open the press pack provided by Foster’s aide and nudged me. The same photos Mary had given us were right there, in Technicolor.
“Now what?” she asked as the other reporters went through the photos and began rattling off questions. When someone from the local CBS affiliate suggested maybe the photos could call into question Foster’s and Davies’ complicity in activities that night in Darfur, Foster held up his hand again for quiet.
“I’m well aware of how this looks. Taken out of context, plenty of stories or suggestions could arise. That’s why I wanted to come to you, the press, directly. I’ve always been open with you folks—a hell of a lot more than my PR guys appreciate.”
There was a ripple of laughter in the room. Foster flashed bright white teeth for a split second before the smile vanished. “But this time, this isn’t about me. Let’s not confuse the issue of what’s really going on here: Councilman Davies and I freed these girls.” Davies shifted uncomfortably beside him, a look that was almost pain crossing his face. No one else seemed to notice. “And now,” Foster continued, “one of them is dead and one is missing. Let’s work together, friends. Bring Maisie home.”
Solomon flashed a large button that had also been in the pack, toward me. BRING MAISIE HOME was written in bold red, white, and blue letters.
Thibodeau answered a couple of questions—poorly, his impatience shining through—before the chief of police took over. The detective left before we could follow him.
We stayed until Foster and Davies had gone. A few reporters lingered, but most were either gone or lurked with cell phones in dark corners, whispering to their editors.
“So what’s the next step?” Solomon asked.
“Honestly? I need a shower. After that, I think it’s time to haul Buzz out of retirement.”
◊◊◊◊◊
When we reached Buzz’s room at Maine Medical Center, Alice was already there, and Buzz was fighting with the nurse about the menu. His throat was bandaged, as were his arm and his cheek, but he’d lost none of his fire.
“If I wanted to live on Jello, don’t you think I would’ve mentioned it to my wife before now?” he said. Solomon and I hovered at the open door, listening in. “Alice, have I ever said a word to you about Jello?”
“Not that I can recall, dear,” Alice said. She was seated in a chair in the corner with her laptop. She didn’t bother to look up when she spoke. “But then I tend to tune out most of the things you say. Would you leave the poor woman alone and either eat the fucking Jello or just throw it out?”
“Sounds like he’s doing better,” Solomon said to me. We slipped into the room; the nurse gratefully slipped out.
“So I guess we should return that lifetime supply of lime-flavored horse hooves we got you for your next birthday,” Solomon said once we were in.
“It’s about time you showed your faces around here,” Buzz said. His voice was raspy, but stronger than I’d expected. He took us both in for a moment. Solomon’s bruises from Elias were barely noticeable, just a faint yellowing around her eyes now, but there was no hiding the purple welt on my cheek where the PI had pistol whipped me. “Guess I won’t ask what the other guy looks like.”
Considering the fact that the other guy was most likely dead, I didn’t argue.
Alice set aside her laptop with a grateful smile. “I thought you were supposed to be keeping a low profile,” she said.
“Got too dull,” I said. “And besides, we’ve got a paper to run. Clock’s ticking.”
“Any progress finding the Dsengani girl?” Buzz asked.
“Not so far. I think everyone and their mother’s out there looking. Foster himself is supposedly putting up reward money for her safe return—did you see the press conference?”
Buzz grunted. “Yeah, I saw. He’s an arrogant son of a bitch, isn’t he? Considering he’s the chief suspect in her going missing in the first place. Prick.” He ran his hand over the bandage on his throat.
“Speaking of pricks...” I said. “It was Elias who took you down?”
“One and the same,” he said gravely. “I thought I was a dead man.”
“You almost were,” Solomon said. “I don’t suppose he gave you any gems about Foster that we could use now.”
“No. Never even used his name—just called him his ‘client,’ and kept asking about Deng. He didn’t give me anything more, though. I gave the cops the full story...” He hesitated. “You know, I wasn’t meant to survive this thing. When Elias cut me, he sure as hell didn’t plan to leave a witness.”
“You owe Solomon for pulling you through,” I said. “I took one look at all the...everything, in that room, and I froze.”
“It wasn’t so bad,” Solomon said, sage-like. She went over and sat on the edge of his bed. “I saw Kat stitch up drunk lobstermen hurt worse on your typical Saturday night in Littlehope.” She ran her fingertip lightly over the bandage on his arm. “I’m just glad you’re all right.”
“Same here,” he said. “What about you two? You been able to get close enough to Foster for a quote?”
“Are you kidding?” Solomon said. “Both him and Davies are completely untouchable right now. I’m sure they’ll have a canned statement later tonight, but no way we’ll get a one-on-one.”
“And Foster pulled the rug out from under you if you thought you’d have any advantage with those pictures,” Alice said. “Smart.”
“Very,” I agreed reluctantly. “The official word from Foster’s lackeys is just what we figured: the pictures are from a well-documented diplomatic mission to try and convince Sefu Keita to free the girls he’d kidnapped—they were ta
ken when Foster and Davies were trying to embrace the culture and gain Sefu’s goodwill. There’s no real way to verify that Lisette is one of the girls in the shots, and none are incriminating enough to call into question anything Foster’s saying.”
“Shit,” Buzz said.
“What about the fundraiser tonight?” Alice asked. “Both he and Davies will be there.”
“Last I checked, we weren’t on the guest list,” Solomon said.
“Look again,” Alice said. She pulled an envelope from her purse. “Two VIP tickets, courtesy of yours truly. I’d say don’t make me look bad, but I know who I’m talking to.”
“You really think they’ll let us in?” Solomon asked.
“Why wouldn’t they? At the end of the day, you don’t have shit on Foster. Besides, he’s a sleazy pol running for senate, not the friggin’ president of the United States,” Buzz said. “Now, go on out and do whatever else it is you need to do to pull this thing together by press time tomorrow night. Make sure you give yourselves enough time to go home and make yourselves look pretty tonight, though. Do us proud.”
Chapter 25
We hit 295 North from the hospital and headed for Boothbay Harbor. I called Wolf from the road, glancing at my watch as Solomon dialed the cell phone. It was just past twelve o’clock. The phone barely had time to ring before Wolf picked it up.
“You see what Foster pulled this morning?” he demanded when he realized it was me.
“We were there. How’s Lisette?”
“She’s not talking,” he said, lowering his voice. “Won’t say a damn thing, but she told me about the whole thing with Foster in Africa. If he knows he’s Maisie’s sperm donor, what the hell is he pulling putting all that money out there to get her back?”
“Unless he already knows there’s no way anyone can find her,” I suggested. “What better way to clear himself of suspicion than by putting up a huge reward he’ll never have to pay?”
“So you really think he’s got her,” he said.
“I don’t know who else it could be.” That was true—I’d run out of ideas. But regardless of anything, I was positive that Foster couldn’t possibly want Maisie found. It was fine for him to confess to the Maine press corps that he’d engaged in some bizarre late-night rituals in an effort to free teenage girls being abused and exploited by a lunatic, but he’d never be able to spin the story if it got out that he was actually Maisie’s father—no matter how good he might be at slinging bullshit.
